§ 229 George, the Forbearing
When Millie came on a Saturday night to bring the week’s washing her comely, pleasant brown face was disfigured by a swollen black contusion which began at her left eye and extended downward until it covered her cheek.
“Oh, Millie,” said her distressed employer, “what a dreadful bruise! How did it ever happen?”
“A nigger man hit me,” explained Millie simply.
“Oh, that’s terrible!” exclaimed the white lady. “I hope—I hope it wasn’t your husband that struck you?”
“No’m, Mizz Harrison, ’twuzn’t him. Gawge, he don’t never hit me. He treats me mo’ lak a friend than a husband.”